c. July 1881
"...the laboratory."
He glanced up at the sound of the door opening, and smiled slightly when he heard the speaking voice. "Mon ami! Dr. Doyle!"
The door stopped swinging shut, and the older man stepped fully into the room. Another man about his age followed him, looking around his surroundings.
He froze when he saw the newcomer, but then shook himself out of his surprise; redirecting his attention to his familiar visitor. "I have found it!"
"Found what?"
"What I spoke of the other day – the reagent suitable to determine the origin of certain stains!"
"You seem quite pleased with yourself." He crossed the room to stand beside the table, looking down at the normal disorder that the other seemed to work in.
Vernet straightened. "Of course! You know the significance of such a discovery!"
"Yes – but it is rare to see you so...energetic."
He sighed, and shook his head. "I have set myself a puzzle, and I have solved it – it is a moment I will always treasure." He glanced sideways at the man accompanying Dr. Doyle, who had finally come up to stand with them.
"Dr. Morgan, Mr. John Vernet. Dr. Morgan is new to London, I was merely introducing him to the laboratories and where he will work."
Vernet turned to the newcomer, briefly shaking his hand. "How are you? I am sorry for your loss."
The man tensed; and then drew back slightly, tugging his hand free.
He waved him off dismissively, dropping his gaze to the table.
Doyle sighed, and then waved his hand at the apparatus scattered around. "It has very practical applications, but would it not be simpler to build the case from other evidence?"
He looked up.
"And the stains – what if they were from the man cutting himself while shaving? Or what if your experiment is only applicable to fresh blood, or not reproduceable?"
"Your faith in my scientific method, Doctor, is reassuring." He straightened and turned around, fetching four piquettes and lining them up on the table. Quickly turning around and pulling open a drawer in the shelf behind him, he pulled out several stirring rods and several vials, laying them down beside the glass vessels.
The two visiting doctors watched as the first piquette was pushed back untouched, a few drops of a yellow liquid were added to the second, rust-coloured dust was scraped off a piece of cloth into the third, and several drops of blood were squeezed into the last. Vernet then dropped a few crystals into each vessel and a few drops of a transparent liquid. As he straightened and stepped back from the table, the mixtures in the last two piquettes turned a dull mahogany, and brown dust settled to the bottom.
The newcomer stepped forward, peering at the unchanging contents of the first two vessels. He looked up. "And these?"
"The first was untouched – a control. The second was merely the juice of a lemon. The test will only work on haemoglobin."
"It seems very interesting chemically, and very delicate."
Vernet watched the man, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Hm. Indeed." He abruptly straightened and worked to clear his tools away. "But little matter. It was but a puzzle."
"Then you will do nothing with it?"
He glanced up. "Should I, Dr. Morgan?"
"Something like that could mean the difference between the conviction of an innocent and the release of the culprit!"
"Those two are hardly separate." He handed the vial to the second doctor, and lifted the box of crystals to pass to him as well. "But use it as you will. The inspectors are hardly likely to countenance anything offered by me."
He carefully accepted the crystals and the liquid. "You have proven yourself untrustworthy?"
He smiled slightly. "Quite the opposite. I bid you good day, gentlemen." He bowed slightly and turned away.
Dr. Morgan hesitated, but was pulled away by his guide. At the door, Dr. Doyle hesitated and then turned back.
"Vernet, I wonder that you only offered him your condolences – you rarely miss an opportunity to show your skills."
He glanced up in surprise from the notes he was making in a book. "My skills? Of what was I to speak?"
"His recent tenure in Afghanistan, perhaps? Come, Vernet – you never are blind to things such as that."
He glanced behind him to the open door. "He has been to the desert? Then I am far more mistaken than I seem..."
"Yes. He served as a medic for a little while. Was sent back for some medical reason – couldn't stay."
He frowned slightly, and then turned to face his companion fully. "Mon ami, I was certain a man like that would not have returned from the desert alive."
AN: …..Well, obviously, if Adam is Holmes then Henry is Watson. And two centuries later? Both can be forgiven for not noticing each other. Vernet starts because for a moment, he recognises Henry as who he really is: Dr. Henry Morgan, husband of Nora, the last legitimate firstborn in his bloodline. Of course, Henry's first name is left out, so he marks it off as coincidence – naturally. He is right about Henry's time in Afganistan, because Henry DID die – thus why he had to come back. And Vernet's condolences were for Nora, although I don't think she's died yet... I've not checked the times yet – I think those hoopskirts predate Sherlock Holmes – but either way, he still lost her. The title is from the idea that they are two skips in the night – so very, very close and yet so far... Because if they had met then? How much sorrow could have been skipped later. 12, February, 2016